The Legend of Zelda: The Desert Rose
by Raynre Valence - Sage of Time
Summary: (Book 2) 10 years before OoT, Talon Lon is the son of the palace horsemaster, tasked with maintaining the stables. His life is directionless, until a sultry Gerudo thief turns his world on its head. When a threat to the kingdom is revealed, he must strike a balance between helping his ambitious, ailing father and keeping watch over this wild desert beauty that refuses to be tamed.
1. Prologue: Part I

_The Legend of Zelda: Desert Rose_

 **Author's Notes:**

Full author's note's can be found in my profile.

Full cover art can be found at: **lozparadisecalling**. **tumblr**. **com**

* * *

Everyone knows the story of the loved shared between a simple farmgirl and the Hero of Time. Some may even know of the threads of fate that bound them together before they'd even met. But not many know of the love that allowed those two destined souls to meet.

That story, like all stories, came about only because of the actions of those that came before, of those who fought and wept and bled to make it happen. This is a story of a love that defied the odds; a love between a young castle stablehand and the proud Gerudo thief that stole his heart.

This is the story of a man called Talon, and his desert rose.

* * *

 _We lose our innocence not in one great incident, but by the slow accumulation of knowledge about the true nature of the world around us. Those whom we shelter for fear of hurting only suffer all the more when their innocence is finally torn from them, and for many it comes far too late. The old phrase "Death by a thousand cuts," has never been so apropos, for that is how our innocence dies._

* * *

Prologue: Part I

* * *

 _Hyrule Castle Infirmary  
-= Winter =-  
18 years prior to Ocarina of Time_

* * *

It's been said that those looking for proof that nobles were no better than the common folk need only look to the flu that swept through the kingdom that year.

The winter had been especially bleak, and the mortuary had long since been forced to packing their overflow in the snowbanks lining the city streets. The great furnace burned night and day for weeks on end, illuminating from below the heavy snow clouds that hung over the city like a widow's veil. Grey ice mixed with the black soot of those fed to the endless flame, smothering the city beneath a shroud of dirty snow.

Even the King had been struck ill early in the season, though the best healers and potion masters had been summoned from the far corners of the kingdom and had worked tirelessly to bring him back from the edge of death. Still, it had been a close thing.

The newly crowned Queen kept watch over those who fell ill within the castle walls, her regular trips to the infirmary both a source of distress for the nurses who feared for her health, and a welcome respite for the sick. Many attributed their recovery to her tender care and ready smile just as much as the healer's knowledge of medicines.

Not everyone had been so lucky.

Talon Lon – a growing boy of only 14 years of age – watched in dazed silence as the healer pulled her robed head away from his mother's still lips. Through the protective mask covering the healer's lower face he could see the pursed curve of her lips, the deep lines around her eyes, and he knew what they meant. The nurse standing by the headboard reached over as the healer moved further down the line of beds and pulled the thin blanket over his mother's serene features. He slumped against the wall beside the bed and hung his head between his knees. He had arrived too late to say goodbye.

Ralon, his father, stood at the end of the hall near the bay windows, puffing thoughtfully on a stout pipe as he gazed out over the icy city streets. The doctors had long since given up on trying to convince him to put out the pipe, even going so far as to threaten to have him thrown bodily from the room.

Ralon had merely laughed. He was a powerfully built man whose frame had just started to go to fat, and had a stubborn pride that rivaled even the King's. When he got it in his mind to do something it would take a force of nature to stop him, and not even the head physician could separate him from his beloved pipe.

He had already said his goodbyes.

Talon looked up at the soft padding of approaching footsteps. Lantern light flickered in the hallway, dueling with the crackling fires that warmed the infirmary.

A royal guard appeared first, holding the lantern before him, and stepped to the side of the passage. The Queen entered next. The jewels in her circlet sparkled beneath her hood in the firelight, and her slight frame was bundled in layers of heavy fur to ward off the freezing drafts as they made their way through the castle. Talon was surprised to see her at this time of day. The Queen usually made her rounds after breakfast and supper, and here it was just after noon.

The Queen's eyes fell on the shrouded form of her former handmaiden, but the only sign that the sight affected her was the almost imperceptible sagging of her shoulders. For an instant Talon hated her. How could she look at his mother, her closest friend and confidant for nearly a decade, as if she'd never mattered? Then he felt the anger slowly seep from his bones. They had all seen too much death that winter. What was his mother, ultimately, but one more casualty to add to the ever growing list?

The Queen let her hood down, a wisp of steam slowly rising from her dark blonde hair. She looked about with soft grey eyes, taking note of Talon, then finding his father at the end of the hall, and moved towards where he stood at the parapet. Ralon turned when he sensed someone beside him and blinked in surprise. The Queen favored him with a disapproving look, and he snuffed his pipe sheepishly. Some forces were best left unchallenged.

"Mr. Lon. I just received word. You have my deepest sympathies," she said, dipping her head in acknowledgment. She waited until he completed a polite bow before continuing. "She was a wonderful woman, and you can't imagine how happy I was when she agreed to come with me to Hyrule. I couldn't have asked for a better handmaiden ... or friend, for that matter."

"Aye," He said, his voice thick with a northern Holodrum brogue and just the fainest hint of emotion. "And she was ah fine wife and mother, ta boot."

"I'm sorry that you came all this way only for this to happen," the Queen continued. "I know that I have no right to interrupt your grieving, but I was wondering if I might ask a favor of you?"

"Anything, yur Highness."

"As you might know, our stablemaster succumbed to his fever several days ago, and I'd heard that you've some experience running a stable." She raised her brows, curious.

Ralon nodded. "Aye. We had ah wee ranch up north before we moved here. Forty head o' cattle, ah few horses. Ducks," he added softly, his eyes going distant. "She always loved the ducks."

The Queen nodded, pressing on. "Then it would seem that your talents are being wasted in the scullery. Even though it pains me to say this, we can't afford the time to properly grieve if it means the death of our livestock. I know you've only been here for half a year, and that the only reason you came is because I begged your wife to accompany me from Holodrum, but I would like to offer you the position of stablemaster. At least until the current crisis is past."

"And then?" he asked, his voice weary.

"And then, once things have returned to some semblance of normal, you may leave if you wish, with all of our blessings and a generous stipend for your trouble," she said, adding, "But I would hope that if the position agrees with you that you would consider staying on in a more permanent capacity."

Ralon sighed, running a hand through his thinning brown hair. "Aye, I can do that," he said. "And I expect I'll be earnin' more than ah scullery washer too, eh?"

The Queen's lips curled. "Of course."

"Then if yur Highness would allow me, I'd like ah wee bit more time before I go'n inspect mah new stables."

She nodded her head graciously, the picture of royal gentility. With nothing more to say she drew her hood once more as she turned and the guard escorted her from the room.

Talon hung his head. Some part of him had hoped that they might soon return to Holodrum, but there was little chance of that now.

Ralon looked to his pipe and seemed about to relight it when he growled and tucked it into a pocket in his tunic. He turned and approached his son, his brow furrowed.

Talon stood on unsteady legs as his father drew close. He had been ignored when he had rushed into the infirmary, but now he felt a sense of dread. His father grew quiet when he was angry, the perfect picture of calm before the seething volcano finally erupted.

"Da, I—" he began, but flinched back as Ralon swiped a meaty hand through the air, cutting him off.

"I cannae imagine what yeh was thinkin'!" Ralon yelled, his accent thickening with rage. "Yeh knew yur mum was sick, yeh _knew_ she was worse off than most!"

Talon struggled to find the words. "I'm sorry, Da. She … she seemed like she was getting better, like the others. I didn't think she would get worse so fast. I didn't think—"

"Tha's right! Yeh didn't think, didja?" Ralon continued, jamming his finger into the boy's temple. A passing nurse shushed them, earning a glare from Ralon, but he lowered his voice a fraction. "Yeh were off canoodling with them no-good friends of yurs while she was drownin' in her own spit! And not once did it occur to yeh to come visit yur poor ol' Mum today b'fore yeh ran off, not once! She died thinkin' that her own son didn't care."

Talon winced under the verbal lash, but remained silent. What could he say? His father was right. He _had_ shirked his responsibilities and slipped out early that morning so he could spend extra time with his friends. And now he would never speak to his mother again. He cleared his throat, fighting the urge to cough.

"You have to put more thought intah what your actions mean to those around yeh," Ralon continued. After a moment he heaved a deep sigh in frustration. "D'yeh ken what I'm sayin'? Is it workin' through that thick nob o' yurs or am I just wastin' mah breath?"

"Yes … Da." Talon replied, then turned and coughed heavily into the crook of his elbow. Once the coughing fit passed he rubbed at his chest, wincing at the deep ache. One of the doctors looked nervously in their direction.

Ralon shook his head and his voice softened as he laid a hand on his son's shoulder. "Well, come on then, lad. Let's get yeh in front of ah fire an' burn that stubborn bastard out o' yeh."

Talon threw one last look over his shoulder at the shrouded forms lining the hall as he allowed himself to be led from the room.

* * *

 _Northern Foothills, The Great Sand Sea  
-= Summer =-  
17 years prior to Ocarina of Time_

* * *

They were on the final day of their hunt and had just begun the return trek to the fortress when the moldarach ambushed them in the foothills.

There were twelve of them in total, all female with fiery red hair, the majority 10 years old save for the three women twice that age who had volunteered to escort the hunting party. A single old crone rounded out the group, her back hunched and hair long since turned to grey, though her age remained a secret to everybody.

Every girl in the troupe save for one had scored their first kills. Sadly, the youngest of the group – Syrenne – had not yet managed to earn her blood, much to her frustration. Determination burned in her golden eyes as she followed closely behind the three older women.

They were tracking a tektite through a low gully when the moldarach erupted from its hiding place in a spray of dust and gravel, spearing one of the older Gerudo warriors straight though the chest with its meter-long sting. The woman died almost instantly as the demon's acid burned through her heart. She didn't even have time to scream as her body collapsed to the desert floor.

The other two warriors reacted instantly, spreading out on both sides of the sand demon and yelling to distract it as the old crone led the group of children away. Attempting to run from the monster in this desert would do them no good; in this heat there was little chance that they would make it very far, and if their escorts did fall, the massive scorpion would be on them in minutes. It was easily twice the size of a caravan wagon, and its speed over rough terrain could match all but the fastest horses. Their only choice was to hide and hope that the warriors could perform their duties admirably.

"Hurry now, girls, get behind those rocks," the old woman hissed, rushing them towards the cragged boulders lining the walls of the gully. The golden bangles around her wrists jingled as she stepped gingerly over the rough terrain. The oldest of the initiates offered a helping hand, but was waved off. "Fool girl, do as I say!"

The eight initiates clambered up the rocks and dumped their packs. At their guide's urging they pressed themselves into the cracks between the rocks, smearing their white clothes with dark desert sand. The boulders were too heavy for the moldarach to push aside, and too closely clustered to wedge its massive claws between. Hopefully it would provide some protection for the younger girls.

As they settled into their hiding place, Syrenne leaned out for a better view. She watched in awe as the two remaining Gerudo fought, their red warrior's silks folding loosely over lean muscle, allowing the young women to move unhindered.

"Syrenne, get your fool head down," the old woman called out, waving a black shrouded arm.

"Yes, Baba Kaede," Syrenne replied, ducking back. She waited as soon as the old woman had turned and was distracted with the others before peering around the boulder once more. Her eyes went wide as she watched the battle play out before her.

The creature's knobbed hide was nearly impenetrable, its glistening black armor nearly a foot thick in some places. Layers of retractable, overlapping chitin protected its one weak spot: the single monstrous eye that sat above its serrated mandibles. Traditional tactics stated that two Gerudo warriors would distract the monster and attempt to lead it towards an ambush point where a third would leap forward with a glaive or spear and pierce the creature's eye. With the third of their party dead, they were forced to improvise, and the battle raged for several long minutes with no decisive advantage on either side.

Syrenne brushed a loose tuft of fiery hair from her eyes, chewing nervously on her lower lip as she watched the two warriors dash and weave between the rocks strewn across the gully floor, their movements as elegant and well-practiced as any dance. They struck and twirled with their glaives, their tied ponytails whipping about their bodies, but ultimately they were doing little to harm the creature.

The moldarach made up for its lumbering size with sheer ferocity, striking forward and pressing the attack, heedless of the warrior's glaives as they bounced harmlessly aside. It grabbed at them with clutching claws, but every so often it would strike forward with its massive sting, scoring the rocks with bubbling trails of acid as the Gerudo warriors dodged out of the way. Each strike of its tail seemed to come closer and closer to hitting its mark.

The warriors both struck several glancing blows on the scorpions jointed legs, drawing thick black ichor from the wounds, but it only seemed to enrage the beast further and soon they began to tire. Both were panting heavily, sweat pouring down their tanned flesh beneath the burning morning sun.

As their strength began to falter, so too did their speed. The moldarach was too fast even for the fleet-footed Gerudo. Just as one of the women stumbled, it skittered forward and clamped a massive claw around the warrior's thigh. The warrior screamed and dropped her glaive as she was wrenched into the air and tossed several meters, landing in a tumble amongst the rocks near the clustered children. Her kukri slipped from her belt and clattered against the rocks.

The other warrior called out to the monster, jabbing at its larger pincer with ineffectual thrusts to try and gain its attention, but the creature sensed blood and pressed towards the fallen woman.

Syrenne reached out and gripped the woman's kukri, feeling its heft. Her eyes flicked towards the groaning warrior before her. The traditional warrior's glaive was too heavy for her to wield in her slight hands, far too heavy, but the kukri would do quite nicely. It was a short ranged weapon, barely longer than her forearm, but the unique forward curve of the blade meant that she could do some incredible damage with her swings. In her first demonstration of the weapons she had seen a warrior not much older than herself behead a boar in one vicious swipe.

In an instant her mind was set, and she drew her own kukri from the small of her back. The blades were mismatched – her own being made for an initiate and thus smaller, more compact – but both were equally sharp. She knew that if she did nothing that the woman lying injured on the ground would die within the next few seconds. Ignoring the cries of her guardian and fellow initiates, she leapt from her hiding place and dashed past the fallen woman, her blood pounding in her ears as she charged the massive scorpion.

The moldarach screeched in glee as it saw an easier morsel charging towards it, and reached for her with eager claws. Syrenne threw herself to the right, ducking beneath the smaller of the creature's mismatched pincers, and scrambled between a pair of boulders that would have proven too tight for the older women. As it was she could barely fit, but she made it just in time. The larger pair of claws cracked against the top of the boulders, scraping along harmlessly as she snaked through the narrow passage.

The creature reared back, to better position itself so that it could attempt to grab her again, but she didn't give it the chance. She drew her legs beneath her and leapt upwards, kicking off of the small outcropping between the boulders, and drove both blades straight up into the creature's vulnerable eye.

The moldarach screamed in agony. Its mandibles snapped together inches from her exposed belly but she twisted aside and planted her feet on both boulders, flinching as its thick hairy barbs brushed against her thighs. The creature's tail lanced downwards as it tried to impale her and drive her away, tracing a ribbon of fire down her shoulder and across her back as the acid of its sting began to burn through clothes and flesh. She cried out as the acid seared the skin on her shoulders and ate through her halter, but she gritted her teeth and drove the pain from her mind. She was Gerudo; pain was an old friend.

She screamed at the monster in defiance, matching its agonized wails as she braced her feet against the boulder, pressing her kukri deeper into the creature's eye. She used all of the strength in her back and thighs to push her blades deeper – digging deep even as the monstrous scorpion tried to skitter backwards – until her forearms were completely enveloped by the pungent fluid oozing from the creature's collapsing eye. Her shoulders were screaming and she felt the tattered remnants of her halter fall about her waist.

With one last cry she leapt forward and drove her arms completely into the creature, leaving her midriff exposed and pressed against its quivering maw, but her blades pierced some vital nerve behind the monster's eye. The creature twitched violently, then its legs collapsed beneath it, nearly dragging her down on top of it. With a final crooning shudder it lay still.

Syrenne kneeled on the rock, panting. For a moment there was utter silence as the remains of the moldarach's eye slid down her arms, then she stood and turned at the sound of shifting rocks behind her. At her feet stood the lone uninjured warrior with her glaive planted in the sand, staring at her with a mixture of awe and respect. A hint of a smile could be seen behind her crimson veil.

The initiates were scrambling from their hiding spot. Two crouched near the wounded warrior, helping her up into a seated position, while the rest followed behind the old crone as she tenderly made her way between the rocks. Halfway down the slope she stopped, and with a glint of pride and admonishment in her eyes she thrust a single gnarled fist into the air, the Gerudo sign for victory.

Syrenne licked her lips, tasting her sweat. Still panting and with her pulse singing in her ears she held her left hand high in response, the kukri clutched in her fist – bare-breasted and dripping with sweat, blood, and cloudy ichor. The eldest Gerudo took up a warrior's cry, thrusting her walking staff into the air with both hands, and the rest of their troupe followed suit – even the older warriors – cheering her great victory.

Syrenne smiled fiercely as her arm dropped to her side and her legs began to tremble, the adrenalin finally beginning to burn from her tired body. Finally, she was no longer a girl, but a woman. A true warrior of the sands.

* * *

Quill cacti were thin and held little water, but if you were careless enough to brush against one their spines would imbed deep in your flesh and were almost impossible to remove without cutting. They grew plentifully among the foothills, and normally would be seen as little more than a nuisance since they bore no fruit. Now the small band of Gerudo scoured the rocks, gingerly cutting and collecting as many as they could find. They would burn well for the celebratory fire tonight, and they needed all that they could gather.

The young girls clustered around Syrenne as they worked, much to the displeasure of what remained of their escort, constantly finding reasons to talk with her and congratulate her on the greatest kill that any of them had ever seen. She enjoyed the attention at first, reveling in the admiration, but soon grew uncomfortable as the day grew long. Eventually she drifted towards Baba Kaede, who chased the clustered girls off with a swing of her walking staff.

"Shoo, all of you! You can't be getting much work done if you're all gabbing like ducks!" the old woman cried, and the girls scattered, giggling and shrieking with laughter. "Spread out, or I'll put a hex on you that will shrivel your ears, and we'll see who's laughing then!"

As soon as the last girl dispersed Syrenne turned to the old woman and bowed. "Thank you, Baba Kaede."

The old woman grunted and pressed her partially filled satchel into the young girl's hands. "Thank me by carrying my tinder. This old back of mine isn't as resilient as it used to be."

Syrenne's eyes crinkled with laughter. "Yes, Baba Kaede."

Kaede looked at her with an evaluating eye as they worked. "How does your back feel, child?"

Syrenne smiled, fingering the wrappings that had replaced her ruined halter. "I can hardly feel it anymore. If it wasn't for your knowledge I would be in agony right now. Thank you."

Kaede grunted. "We should have enough poultice to last us at least until we reach the Desert Colossus. If you start to feel dizzy, tell one of the Sisters," she said, dislodging a dead thistlethorn with her staff. "Moldarach venom is some of the nastiest shit I've ever encountered. It reacts with the water in your blood, cooking you from the inside if you've received a large enough dose. It would be a shame to lose such a promising young girl to something as foolish as heatstroke."

It took the entire day to collect enough tinder, but by nightfall they had a worthy pyre for their fallen Sister. It was a sad fact that they couldn't carrying the body with them back to the fortress and give her a proper funeral, but they had a week's travel ahead of them and they would never make it back before the rot set in. Instead she received a warrior's service. Abbreviated though it was, it was still beautiful to watch as night fell and the uninjured Sister danced in front of the burning pyre for her fallen comrade.

After a light supper they gathered around the pyre and the two elder Sisters brought out the paints that were to be saved for the end of the hunt. The initiate girls tittered with glee and playfully fought over who would be first to be painted, eventually deciding that order of kill would be the fairest way to sort themselves. They sat patiently in line as the older women went to work painting their cheeks.

Before Syrenne could join the back of the line she was dragged to the far side of the pyre by Kaede. The old witch sat on a small boulder and planted Syrenne on the ground in front of her. She clucked her tongue as she peeled back the crusted bandage on the young girl's back. "We're going to need to change this before you bed down for the night. There's still some venom seeping out of your skin."

Syrenne glanced over her shoulder. "It still doesn't hurt."

"That's because I know more about potions and poultices than the rest of the Gerudo combined," Kaede cackled. "If I had the proper herbs, I could numb your entire body to where you wouldn't blink an eye if you'd lost an arm to that demon. Koume and Kotake only wish they had my talents."

The old witch reached into her medicine pouch and pulled out a small canister and paintbrush. Syrenne's heart leapt with joy at the sight, but she blinked in surprise when the paint was revealed to be pitch black and not the traditional white.

"Let the others have their whites," Kaede said with a conspiratorial wink as she washed the dirt from the young girl's face with a clean kerchief. "Something as impressive as a moldarach kill deserves a little something … special."

Syrenne closed her eyes and relished the feeling of the brush on her proffered cheek as the old witch skillfully painted a scorpion upon her skin. She felt a small thrill as the brush swept across her chin and nose and forehead, pincers and claws reaching across her face, its arced sting curled above her eye. Finally the elder woman sat back and tilted the younger girl's head from side to side, admiring her work.

"I'll admit that I didn't have high hopes for the lot of you when I first saw your age group. Undisciplined, gossiping, entitled little brats, all of you," Kaede said, her voice going soft. "But you've matured beautifully. I'm proud of what you've accomplished."

Syrenne looked across the fire at the other girls who had already finished. Their cheeks were painted white with the symbols of their first kills as well, though most were of desert tektites or skulltulas; challenging creatures in their own right, but hardly anything as menacing as the moldarach had been. She had never heard of anyone coming back with anything stronger than a helmasaur to their name on their first hunt before, and her heart swelled with pride at the thought of her tribe's reaction to the marking painted upon her cheek when they returned to the desert fortress.

At least it would help to make up for her other deficiencies. "Not enough," Syrenne murmured sadly to herself.

Kaede raised a curious brow. "And how is that?"

The young girl sighed, then shook her head. "I haven't matured at all. Keira and Jaelyn have already reddened their sheets, while I've just barely begun to bud. How long must I wait?"

"Every young woman is different, little Rose. You'll blossom soon enough," Kaede said, taking a sip from her flask.

Syrenne smiled at the affectation. _Renne_ , or Rose in the tongue of their people, specifically one that grew only at a small cluster of oases to the far south. "But why is it taking so long? What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing is wrong," Kaede replied. "Each girl bleeds in her own time. Don't be so eager to leave your childhood behind. You'll miss it once it's gone. You may still have a year left, perhaps more."

"A whole _year?_ " Syrenne cried. She laid her chin on her folded arms as she stared into the burning flames. "The other girls are already planning names for their daughters, and I still have a full year to wait?"

"So eager for that, are you?" Kaede asked. "Tell me, girl, how are babies made?"

Syrenne flushed. "I … y-you have to find a willing m-male, and he … ah—"

"Out with it, girl," Kaede snapped. "I'm far too old to wait for the red to leave your face."

"He spends his seed in you," Syrenne finished, her cheeks burning.

Kaede cackled, clapping her hands on bony knees. "You can slay sand demons and stitch wounds without a second's thought but stumble about the thought of bringing life into the world?" She ran a withered hand through the young girl's crimson hair. "Take some words of wisdom from an old woman who's outlived a dozen daughters and midwifed an entire tribe: You'd make a fine Mother, little Rose, but what we need more of are thinkers and fighters, not breeders."

"Can't I be both?" the young girl asked hopefully.

The old witch shook her head sadly. "I used to think so in my youth, but now I'm not so certain." Her gaze wandered to distant memories as the firelight reflected in her eyes. "There used to be thousands of us spread throughout this land, you know. There were once vast cities brimming with culture and life at every corner of this desert. We were the envy of other races, oases of beauty amongst the burning sand. Our people were once respected by our allies, and feared by our enemies."

"But now," she gestured towards the burning pyre. "Now we number in the mere hundreds, with more lost every year. And what has changed, I ask you?"

When Syrenne had no answer she continued, "We've given up the fighting spirit of our ancestors. Once our revered _Mothers—_ " She spat the word as if it fouled her tongue, "–return from the greenlands with pregnant bellies, they become complacent, satisfied that they've contributed to the continuation of our race, as if their sole purpose in life has been fulfilled. We are mocked in other lands, derided as vagrants, omens of misfortune, blamed for every perceived slight. "

She shook her head sadly. "But why care about such inconsequential things such as honor and tradition when they only have to travel to the nearest town to satisfy their lusts?"

"But that is how our people have always endured," Syrenne said, frowning at the old crone's words. "We travel to other lands to … to breed … so that we can remain free women. So that we don't have to submit to men or obey any king but the one that the Goddesses bless us with every hundred years. You sound as if you think we should abandon that."

Kaede chuckled. "Oh, don't get me wrong, little one. Men serve a purpose, and many of them can be quite enjoyable. But to be ruled by your desire for laying with them and birthing children until your hair turns grey is no different than shackling your own wrists and handing them the key. Once there was a time when the people of the world came to _us_ , and we selected only the strongest, the most talented, the most desirable as mates. Now we crawl on our bellies to the farthest reaches of the land, begging for the scraps."

She turned to Syrenne and laid a hand on her head. The girl was surprised to see something in her eyes that she hadn't expected: fondness. "I see great things for you, little Rose. You have a fire within you, a quick wit and a burning curiosity. That's why I want you to be thinking, learning, asking questions even when your Sisters are interested in doing nothing but slapping bellies with their mates. You'll make a fine leader some day, and I hope that the day comes that you or your daughters will lead our people to greatness once more. And who knows? In time, if you show some propensity for magic, you could even become as ancient as me."

"You're not so old, Baba Kaede," Syrenne said defensively, though in truth she realized that she had no idea of the witch's true age.

"I'm older than Koume and Kotake combined, and they like to brag that they've lived for centuries," Kaede said, pointing a curled finger at the young girl. "And that's all that you'll get from me on the subject."

She sighed wearily, and Syrenne could finally see the first signs of fatigue in her withered frame. "But I can feel it in my bones. This might even be the last trek into the deep desert that I take with you youngsters. My only regret is that I could not do more for our people before I pass."

"My time is nearly at an end, little one," she held up a hand to forestall any objections. "When I go, Babas Koume and Kotake will be the eldest of the clan, and I fear what paths those two sisters might take our people down. It will be up to strong girls—" She stopped and corrected herself. "Strong _women_ like you to stand up for our race, should it come to that."

"I can't imagine a time without you, Baba Kaede. I've learned so much from you over the years," Syrenne said.

Kaede smiled. "Don't you worry. The tribe existed for centuries before me, as it will for centuries after I've passed from their memories." She paused, thinking, then said, "When we return I'll make sure to schedule extra sessions with you. Hopefully I can drive at least some of my knowledge into that stubborn head of yours."

She paused, then lifted the girl's chin and looked her in the eye. "And when I'm gone, if you've proven a worthy student, I want you to be my Pyre Maiden."

Syrenne felt her throat swell with emotion. The Pyre Maiden's duty was to perform the Spirit Dance, meant to symbolize the dead woman's journey through her life and to ease the passing of the soul from this world to the next. At the beginning of the dance, the Maiden would be the one who set the pyre ablaze. Normally the position was reserved for the closest friend or relative of the deceased, those who knew them best to fully embody their life in dance. For the eldest Gerudo to offer her such an honor...

"I would be proud to light your pyre, Baba Kaede," she finally said, blinking back tears of joy.

"As well you should be," Kaede said, cackling. She took a deep draught from her flask before pressing it into Syrenne's hands. "Come! Drink for the honored dead, and celebrate with your Sisters."

Syrenne took a tentative sip from the flask, coughing at the strong burn of the cactus-lily wine. Kaede clapped her on the back and raised her voice to be heard over the roaring fire as she called out to the rest of their party, her staff held high above her head. "Give praise to the Goddesses and sleep well this night, you who have crossed the burning sands and battled the worst that the darkness could offer!" she called out, drawing the golden eyes of the surrounding Gerudo towards her. "For when we reach the fortress you will return to the tribe not as children, but as Sisters; true warriors, Goddesses in your own right! Let no one take that from you, not even Demise himself! We are the Gerudo, the Children of the Sands, and we will fight unto our dying breath!"

Their undulating, defiant cry echoed out across the dunes and into the night as they danced and drank and celebrated.

* * *

Please remember to review.

 _Ciao!_  
Raynre Valence – Sage of Time


	2. Prologue: Part II

_The Legend of Zelda: The Desert Rose_

 **Author's Notes:** (None) **  
**

* * *

Prologue: Part II

* * *

 _Borderwoods, North Hyrule Field  
-= Summer =-  
15 years prior to Ocarina of Time_

* * *

Talon picked himself up off the ground, spitting the taste of dirt and blood from his mouth.

By his 17th year he had taken to being the son of the castle's stablemaster, and now he couldn't imagine having any other life. When he had been approached by one of his friends to accompany a woodcutting party to the borderwoods he had accepted immediately. The offer of a ten percent cut of their take in return for the lending of his horses was too good of an opportunity to pass up. Now he was regretting that decision with all of his heart.

His horse laid on the ground nearby, a beautiful old roan he'd named Paera, one of the older mares that had followed them all the way from Holodrum. She cried out in agony as she thrashed, an anguished wail that cut Talon to his core. He crawled towards her, his legs too unsteady to stand. Blood matted her soft coat, pumping steadily from wounds on her forelegs that glistened with white bone. He reached out with a shaking hand, but couldn't bring himself to touch the thrashing old mare, then turned and vomited into the foliage.

He'd ridden through these woods with Paera a hundred times. He knew them better than he did his own quarters back at the castle. The sinkhole that had yawned open beneath them after he'd leapt the fallen tree hadn't been there the last time he's come through.

"Oh Goddesses," he muttered as he wiped his mouth clean, his head swimming. "I'm sorry girl, I'm so sorry..."

A high-pitched whinny sounded behind him. He turned and was relieved to see his old friend Jaren approaching on horseback.

"Help! I need help!" he called, waving his arms.

Jaren caught sight of him and steered his stallion carefully around the fallen tree. His horse tossed its head in agitation at the sounds of the injured mare.

The older boy dismounted and inspected the injury with a critical eye before turning to his friend. "She's done, Talon," Jaren said quietly. "We can't do anything for her."

Talon shook his head, laying a comforting hand on the roan's neck. "No … no, we just have to run and get a healer. We can still save her. I'll wait here, and you can—"

"We can't, Talon," Jaren said, cutting him off. "Not like this. You know as well as I do that even if we had a potion to ease the healing, the bones wouldn't set properly. The fracture isn't clean; there's just too much damage. She'd never run again, probably not even be able to walk."

Jaren turned and walked to his horse and retrieved his axe. When he returned he crouched besides Talon, holding the old woodcutting tool out to him handle first. "She's suffering, Talon. You can't leave her like this. You know what you have to do."

Talon looked between Jaren and the offered axe, his eyes going wide. The blade was worn but sharp, glinting in the sunlight filtering through the forest canopy.

"Free her," Jaren pressed.

Talon shook his head. "I … I can't," he said, his mind numb with shock. Kill his most prized horse? It was unthinkable.

Jaren stood, hefting the axe. "Then let me do it. Stand back, quick," he warned.

For a long moment Talon said nothing, then he finally stood and scuttled back away from the horse. Jaren aimed the axe carefully, miming the swing, and was about to pull back for the real thing when he felt a hand on his arm. He turned, and Talon shook his head.

"No," Talon said, his voice strained. "No. I can do it. Let me be the one to do it."

Jaren paused, then handed him the axe. "Aim for the back of the skull, just behind the ears," he suggested softly. "It should be quick, painless."

Talon gripped the axe tightly, wringing the hard wooden shaft in his hands. Part of him wanted to walk away, to cover his ears and drown out the sound of his horse's cries, but he knew that every moment that he waited meant that Paera continued to suffer. He brought the axe up twice in preparation, lowering it both times as the will to act fled back into the shadows. Jaren stepped forward, ready to reach for the handle, but stopped as Talon lifted his arms one final time.

He could barely see through the tears streaming down his face as he brought the axe down.

* * *

 _The Great Amphitheater, Gerudo Fortress  
-= Autumn =-  
12 years prior to Ocarina of Time_

* * *

She'd not given Kaede's offer much thought after her initiation in the desert foothills. She'd had five more years, five wondrous years to learn from the old crone. And learn she did, finding any excuse she could to spend time with the woman whom she'd come to admire as her closest friend. Every day brought some new lesson, some special insight into the world around them. It felt as if her time learning at the old woman's feet would last forever.

It came as a shock when she finally died.

Syrenne had awoken from her slumber in the dead of night as the great brass gong at the top of the fortress rang out, signaling the passing of the old witch. The whole fortress awoke and grieved throughout the next morning. By evening they had cleaned the old central amphitheater and built a pyre at its center larger than anyone currently living had ever seen.

Her only regret upon learning of Kaede's passing was that she hadn't spent more time preparing herself for the ceremony. At 15 years old she would not be the youngest to dance for an Elder. But she was certainly the proudest.

Syrenne watched from the cracked doorway as the entire clan – save for a few sentries left to guard the fortress – slowly filled the seats around the arena. Great sconces ringed the amphitheater, their flames burning high into the night and illuminating the central courtyard where she would perform.

Baba Kaede had been laid in state at the top of the pyre, her eyes closed and her hands clasped peacefully over her chest. Syrenne thought that if they had truly wanted to honor her memory they would have laid a walking stick in her hand and raised it above her head as if ready to swing at unruly initiates, but she kept the notion to herself.

All too soon the brass gong sounded, and the gathered Gerudo fell into a hushed silence. Syrenne breathed steady breaths to attempt to calm her racing heart. The great bronze doors – three times her height – slowly opened, revealing her to the world. She held herself tall and imagined herself the picture of grace as she stepped out into the sandy floor of the arena; barefoot, as was tradition.

The teardrop-shaped crimson jewel hanging from the circlet on her forehead sparkled in the firelight from beneath her bangs. She now wore the maroon silks of a fully initiated Sister, though her lips were still stained with white paint to symbolize her status as a virgin. Her long legs were bare beneath a half-length chiffon skirt. A silken dancing scarf hung from the golden bangles at her wrists, billowing behind her as she confidently strode forward.

As Kaede had once said, she'd matured beautifully over the years. She'd grown taller, stronger, with lean muscle and full curves evident in the swell of her breasts, in the flare of her hips. Her hair was much longer now as well. She'd taken to cutting it to fall loosely over her forehead and around the curve of her jaw, with two twin tails instead of the traditional one that fell from the nape of her neck to the small of her back, held in place by a matching pair of dragon-head clasps – a graduation gift from Kaede all those years ago.

She paused halfway to the unlit pyre, then turned with practiced ease and faced the spectator's box that sat above the bronze doors she had entered from. Two chairs sat where once there was only one. Babas Koume and Kotake sat, their withered hands clasped as they waited for the performance to begin. A young male stood between the two old crones, the first Gerudo male born in a hundred years, three years her junior. His hair was cropped close and his features were still lanky with youth, but in time he would fill out and grow to be a powerful leader. There were whispers that the old crones were already searching the clan for a worthy mate for the young prince, though none had yet met their impossibly high standards.

Syrenne waited patiently for the background chatter of the Gerudo to die down before she began. The silk and jewels shimmered about her as she bowed low, slowly, then snapped up into position. At the prearranged signal a dozen women around the arena began drumming out a simple rhythm on their goatskin drums, and she began her performance.

Her toes traced lines in the sand as she danced, sending sprays of sand splashing about the arena as she made a wide, slow circle around the pyre. With a flourish she produced a pair of castanets and played a staccato tempo in harmony with the drummers. The silk scarf at her wrists whipped around her as she dipped and twirled, the embroidered jewels flashing in the torchlight, creating the illusion of fire come alive.

She lost herself in the dance, pivoting and stretching until every muscle in her lithe body began to burn with fatigue. Often she would hear a whoop or appreciative whistle as she twirled that drove her even harder. Every pose she struck would elicit a response of some sort from somewhere in the crowd, and she found herself actively trying to earn a reaction from the gathered Gerudo women. When she bent over backwards so far that her head touched her heels and sprang back up without falling, many in the crowd murmured in approval. A spray of sand sent flying into the sky as high as the top tier of seats elicited a cheer. When she performed a complicated spin on one foot and speared the other straight up into the air, the crowd roared.

She wanted them to be a part of the dance. Not for herself, but for Kaede. She wanted them to not just celebrate Kaede's life but to feel the love that she felt for the old woman.

All too soon though, it was time to say goodbye. A dozen pouches were hooked tightly to her sash. On her second lap around the arena floor she lifted her arms and began to spin in tight circles around the pyre. As she spun she reached down first with one hand, then the other, plucking the pouches from her side and sending them flying off one at a time straight at the pyre. Each contained a powerful mixture of herbs and chemics, taught to her by Kaede herself. A little dangerous to be dancing with them, perhaps, but what better way to pay tribute to the old witch than with her own pyrotechnics?

The first pouch exploded against the pyre with a great flash of light and a shower of sparks, creating a large puff of pinkish smoke and setting the tinder on that side ablaze. The second had a similar effect, this one releasing a cloud tinged a deep blood-red. The pouches exploded in sequence as she continued to circle the pyre and the flames rose to consume the body, creating a rainbow colored pillar of smoke that rose high into the sky. Every pouch produced a different color, one for each year that she had spent learning at the old crone's feet.

The crowd murmured and gasped in appreciation at the sight as the flames leapt higher. The lighting of the pyre was normally done with a torch or flaming arrow before the dance had even begun. Never before had those gathered – save perhaps Koume and Kotake – seen it become part of the dance itself.

Syrenne wanted it to be special. Kaede deserved it.

With the last of the pouches she came full circle, ending her dance at the exact spot where she started. Her silk clothes wrapped around her slender form as she froze and the drums fell silent, one arm held high above her head, the other across her breast, the perfect pose of serenity.

She waited, panting heavily, sweat darkening her sheer clothing and running in rivulets down her arms, between the curve of her breasts, across the flat plane of her stomach. Silence reined in the arena, and for a moment she feared that she had stepped too far outside of tradition. The pyre crackled behind her, warming her back as the flames grew higher. It felt as if every muscle in her body burned with a fire just as bright as that of the funeral pyre, but still she held her pose.

Syrenne's eyes flitted about the arena, finding here and there familiar faces from her initiation class, others whom had spent time learning with her from Baba Kaede. Finally her gaze settled on the spectator's box. She found it just in time to see the retreating form of the young male disappear behind the privacy curtain without a backwards glance. Syrenne felt a stab of anger shoot through her, but remained still until the elders had given their blessing. The brat was egotistical, but what could you expect from a Gerudo male who had been pampered all of his life?

It felt like an eternity, but finally Babas Koume and Kotake rose from their seats as one, looked at each other, then Koume stepped forward. She raised her gnarled hands high over her head, letting her black robes fall about her arms as she closed her eyes. For a moment there was only silence, a subtle stillness, as if the wizened old woman was tasting something on the air. Finally her eyes snapped open once more.

"It is done," she said simply. She dropped her hands as the stadium erupted into cheers and undulating cries. Tambourines and dozens of singing voices began to ring out as the celebration of Baba Kaede's life truly began. The twin witches – now the Elders of the Gerudo clan – both turned and left the stadium.

Syrenne held her pose for a minute longer, then finally bowed with a flourish, sweeping her free leg behind her. The cheers increased in pitch, and with a relieved smile she realized that it was for her successful dance as much as for the recently deceased. A single tear slipped free and fell to the sand even as her heart soared with joy.

* * *

Long after the last of the Gerudo had filtered out and left the stadium, Syrenne sat and watched the crackling flames, an empty wine flask discarded at her side. She leaned back against a stone pillar, enjoying the soft burn of her tired muscles and the slowly dimming buzz of the alcohol. She stretched her long legs out before her, heedless of the damage the sandy cobblestones were doing to her maroon silks, and contemplated the roiling emotions in her heart.

She felt a sense of loneliness that she hadn't expected. She got along well enough with the other Sisters of the clan. A few minor rivalries, of course, but no one that she would consider a true enemy. On the other side of that coin, she had no true friends she could speak of, either. She'd never felt as comfortable around anyone as she had around Baba Kaede, and had chosen to spend most of her free time around the wizened old woman, learning all that she could. And now Kaede was gone, her soul spirited away on its journey to Paradise, while Syrenne was left with a hole in her heart.

If she concentrated she could hear the continuing celebrations coming from the dining hall. There would be toasts and feasting long into the early morning hours. Every one of the Gerudo had lost someone that day. Koume and Kotake were respected. Kaede had been loved.

She stared into the fire long into the night, remembering the all-too-short time she had spent with the old witch. As the eastern sky first began to lighten with dawn she finally dozed off, wondering what her own dance would look like, if she would be worthy of entrance into Paradise. Of what the future had in store for her.

She could only hope that one day her own pyre would be half as beautiful.

* * *

 _Ciao!_  
Raynre Valence – Sage of Time


	3. Chapter 1: Discriminating Tastes

_The Legend of Zelda: The Desert Rose_

 **Author's Notes:**

Disclaimer: I don't own The Legend of Zelda or any of the established franchise characters. Talon and co. are the intellectual property of Nintendo and are not used by this author for any profit beyond his own personal – and sometimes twisted – amusement.

This story is rated **PG-13** for romance, sexual themes/descriptions, language, violence, and thematic elements. There are **adult themes** at work here, and it may dip into the **R** rating occasionally, but there will be no **NC-17** / **X** material here. You have been warned.

Please note: This story is set approximately 10 years before the events depicted in Ocarina of Time. Some facts may have been skewed slightly, either as an acquiescence to realism, plot, or merely to suit the author's maniacal purposes. As always, please enjoy, and remember to read and review!

* * *

Chapter 1: Discriminating Tastes

* * *

 _Castle Town Market  
-= Summer =-  
10 years prior to Ocarina of Time_

* * *

Peals of childish laughter echoed across the crowded courtyard, momentarily surfacing above the roaring din of merchants and shoppers before subsiding once more. The slightly off-key melody of a street musician's pipes was drowned out by the sharp whinnying of a mounted guardsman's steed as he rode past.

The guard's watchful eyes scanned the crowd as he slowly steered his way through the surging throngs, alert and ready for any trouble. Though any cutpurse worth his blade would never be caught out in broad daylight, the guard knew that certain kinds of people were more liable to turn to thievery, and it was those that he kept a watchful eye out for.

The two Gerudo women waited for the guard to pass before stepping out of the shadows between two shops.

 _Another greenlander city, another damp, stinking alley,_ Syrenne thought with a grimace as she deftly wove around the worse of the refuse.

"You'd think that these people would take more pride in their capitol," the older woman next to her commented, bending to examine her sandal. "I don't even want to know what I just stepped in."

"Then what, dear Sister, would you have to complain about?" Syrenne replied, earning her a playful flick across the curve of her ear.

She resumed her perch atop an old barley barrel and neatly crossed her legs lotus-style. The market of Castle Town was bustling today as usual, with merchants hocking their various wares from behind their wooden stalls. Beings from all corners of the kingdom mingled here, and their many various languages mixed and danced through the air, creating a cacophonous symphony that was oddly pleasing to listen to if you had the ears for it. The scents were just as varied; from where they sat, the earthy smell of a Goron bistro blended with the fine perfumes of a Labrynan spice merchant. A less pleasing odour was emanating from a box several feet behind them, possibly the home of a stray mongrel.

And beneath it all, the subtle scent of money changing hands, making many a merchant richer. Or, at least, a little less poor that they were before, after the Hylian King took his cut of the taxes.

"How about that one?" The older woman asked, pointing with a perfectly manicured finger as she resumed their earlier discussion.

Syrenne felt her nose wrinkle in disgust. "A little too ripe, I think."

They surveyed the market from their secluded alley for several minutes more, utilizing years of combined evaluating experience, before the older woman again gestured. "Mmm, that one looks tasty."

A sharp laugh as Syrenne caught sight of a plume of flamboyant color that would put a tropical parrot to shame. "And as bent as a split arrow. Try again."

"Just makes it more of a challenge," the older woman mused, more to herself than to the younger girl at her side, but let the matter drop as they continued scanning the stalls. "What about … that one?"

Syrenne sighed and took a sip from her water flask to try to mask the shudder that ran through her. _'Shopping,'_ as her companion had so eloquently put it, was not going well today. "No natural flesh in the world should be that color," she said.

The older woman blew an exasperated breath. "You'd think that with all of the rich merchants here that there would be at least _something_ that would catch your eye."

"You'd think," Syrenne agreed, and left it at that.

They spoke in Geldo – the language of the Gerudo people – so as not to be understood by the throngs of shopping Hylians about them. She preferred the gentle vowels of her native language to the harsher, more guttural tones of modern Hylian anyway.

 _After all,_ Syrenne reflected, _It wouldn't do to scare away the merchandise._

She sensed rather than saw her companion bring out her hand-mirror and lightly primp her hair. A sign of lost patience, yet Syrenne said nothing as they continued to scan the crowds.

Her gaze flicked over the courtyard and past the central fountain, following what her eyes had seen faster than her mind could process. A choice specimen had caught her eye; young and fit, with a builder's physique. He appeared lost, which as any good thief knows is the easiest mark, but before Syrenne could even drop from her barrel the man was quickly snatched up by a woman in a sundress that was at least two sizes too small, her ample bosom spilling out in a very unappealing manner.

Syrenne _tsk_ 'ed in disappointment and resettled herself on the barrel. It seemed like every time she even caught the barest glimpse of a real prize it was whisked out from under her fingers.

The elder Gerudo looked to her imploringly. "Syrenne, love, how are you ever going to lose your white if you won't make a choice?"

Syrenne slouched, once against feeling the shame of being the eldest by over a year to have her lips stained white. Once a cause of celebration " _Lorena_ ," she ground out, "I thought you said that you'd try to be more understanding about this?"

Lorena sighed, her shoulders drooping. "I'm trying, love, I really am. But how difficult is it to find a nice, young, fit male to impregnate you?"

Syrenne felt her face flush scarlet. " _Lorena!_ "

"What?" the older woman replied, clicking her mirror shut and waving it dismissively, "I'm merely speaking the truth. There's no reason to have to hide behind flowery euphemisms."

"Maybe I prefer the flowers," Syrenne grumbled to herself.

"I just think it would do you some good to find a nice, handsome gentleman and... What was that colorful Hylian expression again?" Lorena said thoughtfully, pressing a playful finger to her crimson lips. " _'Rut like wild horses?'_ "

Syrenne turned her sullen gaze back towards the courtyard. "I see no reason to describe it like … _that_ ..."

She felt an arm curl around her shoulder and a soft breath caress her ear as Lorana gave her a reassuring squeeze. "I know you were old Kaede's favorite, Syrenne, but she really did you an injustice by filling your head with all those stories. She convinced you that your first time should be special and meaningful in some vague, existential way while never bothering to show you exactly what that was.

"But all it means is that you're just too damned picky. You're willfully missing out on all of the fun." Lorena brushed the pad of her thumb across Syrenne's ivory-stained lower lip, forcing their gazes to meet. "This is the final step to becoming a Sister. It's an honor to complete your ascension to full womanhood, and if you manage to bring back a daughter for the clan, then all the better."

Syrenne inhaled sharply as she felt Lorena's lips brush against the curve of her jaw, the older woman's voice lowering to a throaty whisper. "If you're feeling nervous, I could help you, if you'd like. Who better than your _Shia'vai_ to help you finally wash the white from your lips? You're already irresistible as it stands. What male could possibly say no if the two of us invited him to bed?"

Syrenne closed her eyes and considered Lorena's words, ignoring the somersaults her stomach was performing. She had to admit that the offer did hold a certain allure. She'd been Lorena's _Ohni'vai_ – her younger sister, or her pupil, for lack of a proper Hylian term – for nearly a year now. She trusted Lorena like no one else since Kaede had passed, and had even welcomed her into her bed on occasion.

But there was always a certain distance to their relationship, a coolness in Lorena's demeanor, something that she'd seen between many Gerudo women. They were intimate, but they would never be close.

On the other hand, Lorena was far more experienced in the arts of subterfuge and seduction, and Syrenne had been an eager student. She'd learned from Lorena the activities that old Kaede had long grown rusty in, and she was grateful for the knowledge she had acquired. Lorena was only three years her elder but had already given birth to her first child before they'd even been assigned to each other, though had had no others since. She couldn't have asked for a better _Shia'vai_.

Syrenne's eyes flicked open. "How is your daughter?"

"Yehva?" Lorena blinked, surprised by the sudden change of conversation. "She's well, I suppose. I haven't spoken with her instructor in weeks. Why?"

 _And therein lie the problem._ Seyrenne thought.

When every woman in the clan was family, a small part of the greater whole, personal relationships were blurry and indistinct. Meaningless. While other Gerudo were watching the males of other races, Syrenne had been studying the women that walked with them. She'd seen feelings of affection born of such intensity that they rivaled the kind of reverence normally reserved for the Goddesses. Such utter devotion to another person was almost unheard of in Gerudo culture, rarely seen outside of twins or _Dya'mou –_ women who preferred to keep the company of their own gender and found the idea of laying with males repulsive.

She sighed again. It was times like this that she most missed Babe Kaede's sarcastic wit, wishing she could simply turn her head and ask the old witch's council. Sometimes she found herself daydreaming, wishing that she had been born in centuries past, when Kaede had been in the prime of her life. What would their lives had been like had they grown up together?

Lorena was right, in one aspect at least. Kaede had filled her head with wild stories, tales that were not told around the campfires at night. Stories of far-off lands filled with wonders and creatures the likes of which she'd never seen, but desperately wanted to experience. And Kaede had been right as well. Her Sisters were only interested in the continuation of the clan. Syrenne didn't fault them for it. They knew nothing else.

She wanted something more, and she'd hoped to find it here in the greenlands, far from her place of birth. But she had journeyed with the Gerudo caravan for the past two years now as it struck out to distant cities, and she had yet to find what she sought. She wasn't even sure what to call what she was looking for, or even what she was missing in the first place, but she felt as if some part of her wouldn't be complete until she found it.

Worse, she was starting to wonder if Lorena had a point. The Sisters of her age group that had looked upon her with worship in their eyes after her battle with the moldarach now mocked her for her stunted maturity. Not one of them still wore white paint upon their lips, and all but two had already given birth. Once again she was the child of the group, but this time it was from her own stubborn defiance.

It was also times like this that she despised Baba Kaede, for opening her eyes to the world around her. She could have been happy, like Lorena, content to breed daughters for the tribe. But no, the old witch had inflamed her sense of curiosity, forcing her to look outside of their small part of the world. Why couldn't she have just left well enough alone?

Syrenne started as she felt a flick against her ear. "You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?" Lorena asked.

Syrenne blinked. "I … I'm sorry. I was just thinking. What did you say?"

"I said your barrel was on fire. Run girl, run," Lorena deadpanned, then hooked a discreet thumb towards her shoulder. "But I was just trying to get your attention. It seems that your little shadow has followed us."

Syrenne turned her head, brushing at an imaginary mote of dust on her shoulder as she glanced behind her. Her eyes quickly found the flash of color ducking behind the wall at the end of the alley, and she laughed. "So she has."

They had first noticed the young Gerudo girl several weeks back at the desert fortress. It wasn't uncommon for younger girls to develop an infatuation for older women in the tribe. Many even developed something akin to a minor crush for those that they felt they could admire. What was surprising was that they had quickly discovered that the girl only seemed interested in following Syrenne, not Lorena.

The young shadow wore the maroon silks of a Sister, but she was still thin and stringy, barely out of her initiate whites. Twelve, maybe thirteen years of age at the most, awkward in a budding body she had not yet grown accustomed to, she had yet to flower with the grace or curves of a young woman.

The girl's appearance was unexpected, though in retrospect not surprising that she would come with the Sisters on their visit to Castle Town. Young women had to start somewhere, and where better to learn about the world than in the capitol city of the greatest kingdom on the continent?

While she was observing her shadow, Syrenne hadn't noticed the change on her companion's face. Lorena's bored expression slowly transformed until she had developed a playful gleam in her eyes."I think I know just what you need," she said with a chesire grin.

"What's that?" Syrenne asked, half listening.

"Or rather, I know what you _don't_ need," Lorena said, her grin widening.

Her golden eyes flicked back to her _Shia'vai_. "Are you going to tell me, or do I have to play Twenty Guesses?"

The older woman drew out the silence until Syrenne was curious enough to swivel on her seat and look her in the eye. "Me," Lorena said with a wink before turning and walking deeper into the alley.

Syrenne twisted and stared after her in mild shock. "You're just going to leave me here to pick alone?"

"As my _Shia'vai_ did to me, and hers before that," she said, sauntering down the alleyway, not even bothering to turn around as she waved lazily over her shoulder. " _Ta-ta_ , love. I'll see you back at camp this evening. Remember; we have a reputation to uphold, so do try to grab a real looker."

Syrenne was in such shock that she hadn't managed to formulate a response before Lorena disappeared into the crowd. She glanced around behind her, but no, her shadow had not reappeared. She was well and truly alone.

She kicked a leg out and took another long pull from her water flask, considering her position. Alone in the most populous city in the kingdom, with no one to watch or question her if she successfully seduced a male or not. She could make herself scarce and return to the camp late in the evening, claiming that she'd not found a suitable mate, and face the contempt of her fellow Sisters. Or, she could claim she'd done the deed, and try to fend off what would surely be a barrage of questions. She held no illusions that she could hold the farce indefinitely. The Gerudo were too shrewd for that, and the shame when they found out would be even greater in the long run.

And Lorena had seemed so ... so _proud_ of the thought of her _Ohni'vai_ finally losing her white and becoming pre—

Syrenne's thoughts hitched. She pressed her palm flat against her tanned stomach. To have something growing inside of her... It wasn't exactly a revolting thought, but it did make her feel as if she had swallowed a mouthful of cave moths. The Mothers had assured her – repeatedly – that she was ready for this.

"So why don't I _feel_ ready..." she muttered quietly.

She looked up at the throngs of Hylian shoppers. There was no alternative, then. She had to find a suitable male, and she had to find one before the sun set. By Din above, she swore that she would wake up tomorrow and apply the crimson paints of a fully blooded Sister to her lips.

She gingerly leapt off of the barrel and, steeling her resolve, slipped back into the crowd of Hylians as discreetly as a breath of wind.

* * *

 _Ciao!_  
Raynre Valence – Sage of Time


End file.
